Bitchfaces, Light Bulbs and the Flu
by totally-feeling-the-aster
Summary: Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man, has trouble admitting things. He won't admit his feelings when the need should arise, nor will he admit he's in pain. Ever. So when Dean, the Dean who's been to Hell, Purgatory and beyond becomes bedridden because of the flu, he won't admit it. Oneshot.


Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man, has trouble admitting things. He won't admit his feelings, when the need should arise, nor will he admit he's in pain. Ever.

So when Dean, the same Dean who's been to Hell, Purgatory and beyond becomes bedridden because of the_ flu_, he won't admit it. It's painfully obvious, if his coughing fits and repeated sneezes are anything to go by, but still, he won't admit that a common virus has him on break from hunting for a while.

Sam, smart and observant, has picked up on Dean's illness possibly before Dean began to realize it himself. Sam had noticed how pale his brother had become, how his cheeks flushed pink and highlighted the freckles on his nose, and how he'd started pausing upon standing up to steady himself before trudging on.

"'M not sick, Sammy," "Lay off," and "Get those stupid pills away from me!" became common phrases out of Dean's mouth as his illness progressed. At first it had thought it to be a simple head cold, but within a few days it had progressed to dizziness and fever.

For instance, today as Sam pulls the thermometer back out of Dean's mouth, he decides to read it aloud in hopes that maybe his big brother will suck it up and just admit that he's sick.

"Dean, you're running a fever of 102." Sam throws him the best bitchface he can muster. Maybe this time he'll-

"Keep telling you 'm not sick, Sammy." Nope. Of course he won't admit it. With a groan, Dean kicks the covers off of himself and stands on shaky legs in an effort to make it to the bathroom. A dizziness spell hits him, seemingly causing the walls to tilt and before Sam can get to him, he collapses into his bedside table, knocking over a lamp and surely breaking it.

"Jesus, Dean!" Sam picks Dean up off the floor and helps him across the hotel room to the bathroom, making sure he's far enough into the room to not have to walk much, and pulls the door shut, walking back over to the bed and carefully picking up the lamp in hopes that he can fix it and not have to pay for it. But the bulb is already smashed, and he doesn't want to leave Dean long enough to buy a new one, so he accepts defeat and sits it back up onto the table.

Sam's head shoots up as the door creaks open, making a beeline for Dean, and getting there just on time because he'd nearly tripped himself coming over the door frame. He'd managed to stub his toe in the process, this becoming evident to Sam by the string of loud curses that left his mouth.

"You alright?" Sam showed a hint of a smile at Dean's lack of grace, but his eyes showed his true concern. Dean had been like this for quite a few days now with no improvement, and he had _refused_ to take any medication.

"How many times do I have to tell you 'm fine?" Dean throws Sam the best glare he can muster, weakly shoving him away to walk back to the bed by himself, and nearly falling again before righting himself and slowly hobbling on.

"Don't you think maybe we should call Cas? He could come and heal you, you know." Sam raises a hand to scratch behind his neck. Dean picks up on this nervous habit as he climbs back into his bed, throwing his shirt off and leaving him only in a pair of old sweats. The heat had become too much for him. Sam makes a mental note of the sweat running down his shoulder blades as he collapses into bed stomach down, hugging his pillow and burying his face in it like he often chose to do. Sam had never understood why Dean slept on his stomach, it had to be uncomfortable, and just think of all the back problems it could cause…

"Don't want to bother him. Sure he's busy," Dean mumbles into his pillow, lucky Sam picked up on what he said the first time because he doesn't feel like repeating himself. His throat is far too raw for that.

"Come on, Dean. I'm sure you want to hunt, and if Cas knows there's something wrong with you, I'm pretty sure he'll drop whatever he's doing and help you." Sam sits on the bed beside Dean, putting a hand up to his cheek to test the temperature again, and recoils quickly at the heat.

Standing up in frustration, Sam gives Dean another one of his famous bitchfaces and says, "Dean, you need to make the call. _Now_."

The eldest of the Winchesters sighs heavily into the pillow, thinking for a moment before turning his head and mumbling "Cas, I'm dying."

Immediately the sound of wings is evident, and Castiel appears, horror on his face. "Dean!" The angel pushes past Sam to Dean, frantically checking him over for wounds or other bodily injury.

"Dean, I do not understand. You said you were dying." Dean takes up another terrible coughing fit, Sam taking up the liberty of comforting the angel and telling him that Dean isn't dying; he's just suffering from the flu.

However, this does nothing to calm Castiel, and if anything, makes him more tense.

"Cas, whatsa matter?" Dean leans up, trying to support his head with his arm, but decides lying down is more comfortable for his headache, his arm falling back to the bed.

"You two underestimate influenza. In the early 20th century, it was a major cause of death. You should have summoned me sooner." Without hesitation, Cas leans in and presses two slender fingers to Dean's forehead, feeling his body fall back to a normal temperature. Dean inhaled a long breath of air, something that had pained him terribly before.

"Thank you Cas," Dean whispers, voice full of relief. Feeling relaxed for once, he almost immediately falls to sleep, gentle breaths leaving his lips.

Sam is grateful that Dean is better, he really is, but the thought hits him that Dean never admitted he was ill. How Dean could power through a week without complaining about being sick _once_ brought Sam to the realization that Dean needed to loosen up a bit. Him and Cas would have to work on that, wouldn't they?


End file.
